Before and After
by kookykey
Summary: Dean struggles to reconcile who he used to be, with who he is after hell. "Now it's the same situation with a different trauma. Another version of himself lost to the flames"


He can't hear the wind howling around him, can't feel the sting as the icy rain pelts his already frozen skin.

He's sitting in Bobby's junkyard feeling impossibly empty. Slumped on the ground like he's just ran out, like he's just _broke._

He feels impossibly and so irreparably broken, and tired. So very very tired.

He sits on the cold wet ground and thinks that he could quite contently just sit here forever, allow himself to sink into his surroundings until he withers away into nothingness. The thought of summoning enough energy to stand up and walk and talk and smile and laugh and _be alive, _sends a jolt of paralysing fear surge through him. Because he just _can't, he can't, he can't he can't!_

He can't breathe.

He's one step away from hyperventilation and he forces himself to take a deep breath, tries to calm down, tries to tell himself to suck it up, to be strong, to be _okay._ But he just isn't.

And he can't see how he ever will be again.

[][][][][][][][]

"What the hell are you doing out here Dean?"

He doesn't even blink at the gruff voice that penetrates the silence, doesn't feel inclined to give an answer, only notes distractedly that it isn't raining anymore. Not that it matters (not like anything matters), he's soaked to the bone but he can't feel it, all he can feel is the heat, the pain, the hopelessness, the never ending horror that plays on a loop behind his eyes.

Bobby's talking again, but all he hears is screams.

He shouldn't be surprised when the older man wearily sits himself down next to him, the guys like a dog with a bone when he's after something, and Dean knows that he cares, cares enough to freeze his ass off in his own junkyard when there's a nice warm house not 10 feet away.

A bottle of tequila enters his line of vision and he accepts it eagerly. His hands are shaking like damn leaves but he manages to take a long pull of the harsh liquor, hugs the bottle to his chest like it's his salvation.

Except there is no salvation, he could down the whole bottle, hell he'd like to, but he'll still wake up tomorrow with the same memories, the same pain, not to mention one mighty hangover. Not that that's stopped him on several occasions of late.

Down the bottle, wake up feeling shitty, down some coffee, hunt and then repeat.

A vicious fucking cycle that he can't break.

And he can't help but feel like he's swapped one version of hell for another.

[][][][][][][][]

They sit in silence for awhile, trading the bottle back and forth and for a moment it seems like a normal situation. He's done this with Bobby a thousand times. But this time it's different. Different because his throats still sore from screaming himself awake, because he's pale and shaking with a fierceness that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Sam's up"

Of course he is, he probably woke the whole damn population of Sioux Falls up.

"I told him to wait for ya inside, said you'd come in when ya ready"

The man heaves a sigh at the silent treatment, but he can't exactly answer with 'actually I've decided to just sit here until the world ends' now can he?

"Got fed up of waitin' myself, never been too patient, plus I kinda figured you could use a drink"

The word amen is at the tip of his tongue but it's refusing to come out so he just tips the bottle towards him in salute before tossing back another mouthful.

"Kids probably in there biting his damn nails off worrying"

He wants to say that he's fine, but since nothing could be further from the truth he just keeps his mouth shut.

"You know this actually reminds me of when you were a kid"

He chokes on the swig he's currently taking and his eyes water as he coughs. Bobby makes a move to pat him on the back but stops before he makes the contact. And something inside him just _aches_, because Bobby never had a problem touching him before, but he's different now. A different _Dean._

"Easy"

He murmurs it gently and takes the bottle from him, and he feels the childish urge to grab it back.

He can't think of a scenario in his childhood that could possibly be similar to this.

"Now I know what you're thinking boy, but hear me out, first time you boys and ya daddy stayed here you used to sit out here all the damn time, staring at nothing, not talking. Scared the crap outta ya daddy cos' he said you used to be such a lively kid"

He's listening with avid interest now.

"You'd been here maybe a month and that old man of yours was just itching to get out there, to get hunting, but he was waiting Dean"

He scoffs at that, his dad never waited, not when it came to hunt, not ever. He barrelled in head first taking his kids along for the ride. Regardless of the damage being caused.

He wants to tell Bobby that, but the words get choked up in his throat and he can't force them past his lips.

Bobby sighs again, and rests a gentle, hesitant hand on the back of his neck. He leans into the contact, relishing the feel of physical contact that _doesn't hurt._

He gives a firm squeeze before continuing his story.

"John was never a patient man by any means, especially when it came too hunting, but right at the beginning, he waited kid"

"What for?"

His voice his rough with disuse, but at least he managed to use it. His curiosity over what made the mighty John Winchester wait momentarily over powering everything else.

He's staring at Bobby now, looking him right in the eyes for the first time since they got here this morning.

"You Dean. He was waiting for you, waiting for you to come back to him"

He feels tears sting his eyes, his throat closes up once again, because he knows what Bobby's going to say next and the thought of it ties his stomach up in knots.

"Now this time, instead of your old man it's that brother of yours, sitting in that damn house waiting for you, waiting for you to come back to him"

He buries his head in his knees and ignores the way the world swims out of focus, swallows back bile and feels utterly worthless, because he can't give Sammy what he wants, what he needs, and that isn't right because he made a promise to himself when he was four years old that he would always, always give Sammy what he needs.

But Sammy's waiting for _Dean,_ waiting for the person he grew up with.

And he doesn't think he's ever coming back.

[][][][][][][][]

And Dean thinks that it all comes down to the before and after.

He's willing to bet that when he was a kid, his Dad was waiting for the little boy that Dean was _before_ the fire, but he never came, he burned up in the flames along with his mother, along with his childhood, so instead he got the solemn little soldier, driven by the mantra _watch out for Sammy, _that was the Dean _after._

Now it's the same situation with a different trauma. Another version of himself lost to the flames.

Now he's the Dean _after. (_After torture, after torment, after pain and blood and tears.)

After hell.

He's the Dean after and he can't be anything else, he can't be what Sam, and maybe Bobby need.

They need the person he was before he spent 40years in hell, and he doesn't know how he can make them understand that that person doesn't exist anymore.

He died.

Castiel may have dragged him out of hell, but he didn't get all of him, part of him is still there, part of him will always be there.

The Dean he was before. The better Dean. The stronger Dean. The Dean that didn't sit in a junkyard in the middle of the night feeling sorry for himself.

He holds no illusions, he knows the Dean before hell was damaged, that his psyche was littered with scars. But the Dean after hells psyche wasn't just scarred, it was shattered.

And he pieced it back together every day, built up back up with every beer he shared with his brother, every person saved, every phone call from Bobby.

Then the night would come and he'd close his eyes and be transported right back to the very thing he is trying to recover from. And by morning the pieces that he painstakingly put together the day before will be scattered and he has to start all over again.

And he's pretty fucking tired of building himself up one minute and being crushed the next. Because each time he shatters, those pieces get a little smaller, a little more irretrievable and pretty soon he doesn't think there's going to be anything left of the Dean after.

[][][][][][][][]

He looks into Bobby's eyes and sees nothing but love and warmth reflected back at him, but he doesn't deserve it. _He doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn't._

But it's there and he Knows that the older man would listen to all the sorrowful shit he's got going on his head, he knows that he would just let him talk until he ran out of words if he thought that was what he needed.

He realises that the hand on the back of his neck is still present and thinks he might as well make use of his captive audience.

"I... er...he...I don't..."

He sucks in a lungful of air and tries again.

"He's not coming, the person Sam's waiting for, he's...he's..."

"He's what Dean?"

The voice is gentle and so un-Bobby like and he wonders if he already knows what's coming.

"He's dead alright, he_ died,_ I can't be the good old Dean you both and love because he's still in fucking hell!"

Bobby ignores the anger and just stares at him with such an understanding that it makes him realise he's just been played.

"But you knew that already didn't you? You just wanted me to admit it"

"We never expected you to be the same ya idjit, if hell doesn't change a person, I don't know what does"

Hell doesn't just change a person though, it rips that person into shreds, it rips who you are away and turns you into a twisted echo of what you once were.

"We just wanna help you kid"

He shakes his head but doesn't speak, because they can't, he's beyond help, he's too far past the point of no return to ever find his way back. And he doesn't want to admit it, he doesn't want them to see how defeated he is.

He doesn't want to give up, but a person can only hold on for so long before their arms break, and he thinks he let go awhile ago.

[][][][][][][][][]

More silence stretches out between them and he wonders how long they've been sitting here, surprised Sam hasn't come barrelling out to drag him inside himself.

The silence isn't comfortable, it's loaded and heavy, words left unsaid lingering between them, suffocating them both as they just sit there.

Eventually Bobby finds some words and the oppressive silence surrounding them is lifted.

"Just take some time Dean, you can stay here for as long as you want, we ca-"

He cuts him off.

"No, no, no, no, Bobby, I...I...I can't, I have to...I need..."

His breath is coming in harsh pants now, his panic rising at the sheer thought of staying still.

"What Dean? What do you need?"

Tears leak down his face and he feels so ashamed, he can hear the concern, the hope in the other man's voice and he has to put some distance between them. He can't fucking do this.

He stands up on alarmingly shaky legs, and staggers away in a random direction, he doesn't care where he's going, he's just got to _get away._

But he's drunk and he's tired and traumatized, and he barely makes it a few steps before Bobby grabs hold of him.

"What do you need son?"

He doesn't make a conscious decision to answer, but the words are tearing out of him, his voice the perfect picture of ragged brokenness.

"I need to keep going, keep moving, keep hunting, just...just move ya know, I...I can't stop, I can't stop Bobby, I gotta keep going, I can't stop"

He practically whispers the last part but Bobby hears him loud and clear.

"What happens when you stop Dean? What happens when you stop?

He's already admitted so much weakness, already revealed too much but the older man's still there isn't he. He's still with him, clutching his shoulders, still listening, still a steady presence amidst all the chaos. So he might as well tell the truth one last time.

"When I stop I can't breathe" and it's so much more than that, but the sobs are tearing through him and he's done.

He's just done.

Then his face is in Bobby's shoulder and he's trapped in his embrace, but it doesn't solve anything, it doesn't heal anything, Bobby's arms can't hold him together.

He's just done.

[][][][][][][][][][]

Bobby eventually bundles him back into the house, just as the sun begins to rise. He is glad to escape the glare of it, he feels like the light is mocking, laughing in face saying this is what you've lost. The sun can still rise, but not him, never him. There is no light in his soul anymore.

Sam bursts up of the couch as soon as he spots him, his long arms reaching out for his brother. Dean evades the contact, scurries away until he's on the other side of the room.

He looks at Sam then, watches him register the paleness, the shaking that won't let up, the drenches clothes and the slight sway he's acquired from all that damn tequila, he watches his eyes widen as he takes in his red rimmed and puffy ones.

He meets his gaze then and Dean wants to start screaming all over again.

Sam was never supposed to see this, he was never supposed to witness his big brother break, he wasn't supposed to realise how spectacularly fucked he is, how weak, how pathetic.

But he has seen and now he's staring at Dean with an unmistakeable look of pity, but he won't accept it. _He won't, he won't, he won't._

He lowers his gaze in shame.

"You don't have to be ashamed Dean"

Damn that kid can read him to well.

"It's not your fault"

Yes it fucking is he wants to scream. It's his entire fault because he failed. He failed his most important directive – protect Sam.

This is his punishment, this is what he deserves.

He thinks about telling him that, but he bolts from the room instead.

[][][][]][][][][][]

He ends up in the bathroom, shreds his wet clothes and switches on the shower. Then he just stops for a moment. Stops and stares at his unmarked body in the mirror (with the exception of the hand print that is). It strikes him that it is so very wrong, a shiny body hiding a tarnished soul, no hint of the darkness that lingers inside outwardly showing.

He forces himself to meet his own eyes and chokes back on bile at what he sees staring back at him.

It's no one he recognises, no one that he wants to be.

His features are drawn and pinched, deep black smudges under blood shot eyes.

Eyes that are cold and hollow, eyes that were once vibrant green, dulled, empty.

He feels so impossibly empty, and drained. There's nothing left in him now. There's nothing left _of _him.

Nothing but shattered little pieces that he no longer cares about putting back together.

The Dean before would have never been this defeated, the Dean before would have held his head up and carried on damn fighting. Sammy wouldn't have pitied the Dean before, because the Dean before wouldn't be so worthless.

He lowers his gaze from the mirror, no longer able to bear the sight of his own refection

He stands under the warm spray of the shower and once again gives into the urge to cry.

It's not what the Dean _before_ would have done, the Dean _before_ would have been stronger than this.

But that's a moot point isn't it?

Because he's weak.

He's the Dean _after._

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_This is my first supernatural story and ant and all comments are very appreciated!_

_Please let me know what you think._

_Kookykey_

_.x._


End file.
